by Jean Plaidy
Richelieu conveyed to Maurepas his belief that the Marquise was trying to have him sent from Court if he did not refrain from circulating his wicked rhymes through Paris.
The result of this was exactly what Richelieu had expected.
That very night there was an intimate supper party in the petits appartements. The Marquise sat on the right hand of the King, and both Maurepas and Richelieu were of the party.
As the Marquise took her place she noticed a paper protruding from her table napkin, and glancing hurriedly at it saw that it was a verse of a particularly offensive nature, suggesting that she suffered from leucorrhea.
With great presence of mind she hid the paper, and the King did not even notice that it had been there.
She was conscious of Maurepas’ disappointment. He had hoped that she would read the verse, and accuse him of having written it. He would then have used his wit to anger her to such an extent that the King would surely be annoyed at the scene which would inevitably ensue, and for which – Maurepas could trust his own wit and ingenuity to accomplish this – he would blame the Marquise.
She however did nothing of the sort.
Maurepas had to watch her with grudging admiration. So did Richelieu, who had seen her pick up the paper and guessed its nature from the way she so quickly disposed of it.
Mischievously Richelieu looked from France’s wittiest minister to one who might well be France’s cleverest woman.
One of them would have to go sooner or later, he was sure.
He found great pleasure in watching this duel, for he would be delighted to see the dismissal of either, if he could not hope for both.
Madame de Pompadour had so far said nothing to the King about the verse she had found on the table. She did not want to call his attention to her ill health, and she did not want to make a scene.
But she knew that she could not ignore such an insult. To allow without protest such a verse to be presented to her at the table in the petits appartements would be an admission of her own uncertainty.
Before approaching the King however she would try to make peace with Maurepas. If he would stop circulating these vile verses about her she would be ready to forget all that had gone before, and there should be a truce between them.
She called on Maurepas the next day.
Maurepas could scarcely contain his mirth as he greeted her. He would exaggerate everything that was said and have an amusing tale to tell his cronies later.
‘Madame le Marquise,’ he cried; and there was irony even in his bow. ‘I am overwhelmed by this honour.’
‘I wish to speak to you on a matter of urgency,’ she told him.
‘And Madame did not send for me?’
‘I do not send for Ministers,’ she answered promptly. ‘That would be presumption on my part. If I have anything to say to them I call upon them.’
‘You are gracious, Madame.’
‘You know, Monsieur de Maurepas, that unpleasant verses are being circulated about me.’
‘It is deeply regrettable.’
‘The King has instructed the Administration to discover who is responsible for them.’
‘And they have not?’
‘You have not, Monsieur, because you, I understand, are responsible for the Administration of Paris.’
‘Madame, your reproaches are more than I can endure. Efforts shall be doubled and, when the culprit is discovered, I assure you that no time will be lost in bringing the scoundrel before the King.’
She looked at him intently. Then she said slowly: ‘I believe, Monsieur, that you and Madame de Châteauroux were not good friends.’
He raised his shoulders and eyebrows simultaneously, in an expression of mock regret.
‘I see, Monsieur, that you do not feel very friendly towards the King’s mistresses.’
‘But, Madame, they have my deep respect . . .’ His cynical eyes surveyed her . . . ‘no matter whence they come,’ he added.
‘I am glad to hear it,’ she told him crisply. ‘I felt sure that you were too wise to make enemies of them intentionally.’
‘It is you who have the wisdom, Madame,’ he said. ‘Wisdom which matches your youthful beauty.’
There was no mistaking the mockery and the meaning behind his reply.
She knew that he intended to go on writing verses about her, and the particularly obnoxious one she had received last night was an example of what they would be like in the future.
So much depended on this, but she knew she could not put off showing that verse to Louis.
He wanted to make love. Did he not always? She must not appear tired or jaded in the least. She had ridden with him, and he could be in the saddle all day without fatigue; she had taken part in a little play which she had staged for his entertainment.
‘Madame,’ he said at the end of the evening, ‘you are the most remarkable woman in France. All the best qualities of womanhood rest within your perfect form.’
That was good; but there was still the night before them; and it was the nights which she feared were beyond her talents.
But she was determined to bring this matter of the verses to a head. She knew that both Richelieu and Maurepas were waiting to see what she would do, so action was imperative, and it must not be delayed action.
‘Louis,’ she said, ‘I am sorry to bother you with this matter, but I have suffered a great deal from these cruel verses of Maurepas. This one was on the table in my place last night. I think that it is too crude to be accepted without demur, and I am going to ask you to dismiss him from Court.’
Louis frowned and took the verses. He read them through and flushed.
Then he held the paper in the flame of a candle.
He took her hand and repeated the words with which he had dismissed the guests of that night’s party: ‘Allons nous coucher.’
It was the hour of the lever, and Maurepas was in attendance.
The Comte was alert for some change in the King’s attitude towards him for he did not see how the Marquise could retain her dignity and do otherwise than show him that verse. Her manner when she had called on him had, he believed, held a threat in it. A weaker man, he told himself, would have been afraid, would have sworn he would discover the culprit and put an end to the scandal sheets.
Not he! Not Maurepas! Afraid of the King’s mistress? He had not been afraid of Châteauroux, so why should he be of Pompadour?
Châteauroux had sent him into exile for a while, and what had happened? She had died, and back he came. He was the one who could laugh at that little battle now.
Mistresses should learn that their period of glory must necessarily be brief, whereas ministers could retain office as long as they were clever enough to do so.
The King was unusually jocular on that morning. ‘Why, Comte,’ he said, his eyes scrutinising Maurepas, ‘you look dazzling this morning.’
‘Sire, I am to attend a wedding.’
‘Ah! It suits him, does it not, attending weddings? Did you ever see a man more pleased with himself?’
‘Sire, my pleasure is great because it is someone else’s wedding and not my own.’
The King laughed with the rest, and Maurepas felt gratified. ‘Well, make the most of your pleasure,’ said the King. ‘I shall expect to see you at Marly.’
‘Thank you, Sire,’ said Maurepas, his spirits rising still further.
He was exultant. She has shown him, he thought; and this is his answer. Madame la Marquise, there can be no doubt that your days at Versailles are numbered. Silly woman, you should have accepted my insults. You should have learned that I am a man whom no mistress dares flout. I bring bad luck to the mistresses of Kings.
He obeyed the King inasmuch as he enjoyed the festivities at the wedding of Mademoiselle Maupeou, and when he returned to his apartments he was met by a gentleman of the King’s household.
‘Monsieur de Maurepas,’ said that gentleman, ‘I bring a message from His Majesty.’
Maurepas t
ried not to look concerned as he read:
‘Monsieur,
I told you that I should let you know when I no longer required your services. That moment has come. I order you to hand in your resignation to M. de Saint Florentin. You will go to Bourges. Pontchartrain is too near . . .’
He tried not to show his anger and despair. In what he believed was his moment of victory he had been brought face to face with defeat.
The news spread through the Court.
‘Maurepas has had his lettre de cachet. He leaves at once for Bourges.’
Richelieu could not hide his pleasure. The Queen, whose support Maurepas had received, was deeply distressed.
But the whole Court now knew the depth of the King’s regard for the Marquise de Pompadour.
Madame de Pompadour had taken to using the significant word ‘nous’ to ministers and ambassadors. She was always at the King’s side, and he delighted in showering gifts on her. She was fascinated by beautiful china and took a great interest in the works at Vincennes and, when the King bestowed upon her the village of Sèvres, she began to make plans for bringing the china works to that neighbourhood that she might give them her personal supervision.
But every interest was the King’s interest; and only rarely, as in the case of Maurepas – where there was no alternative – did she seek to impose her will upon him.
It was clear that not even Mesdames de Vintimille or Châteauroux had held such sway over him.
Homage was paid to her throughout the Court, but the people continued to hate her. The poissonades had done their work well. The fact that the mistress was not of the nobility only made the people hate her more. ‘Who is she?’ they demanded of each other. ‘Why, it might have been one of us!’ Such conclusions made envy doubly acute.
The peace was still derided throughout Paris. There were bitter complaints because that tax, the vingtième, which had come into existence in 1741 and which, they had been assured, had been imposed only for a short time, was continued. Many refused to pay it and in the affray between tax collectors and the taxed there were a number of deaths.
The people in the country were no less disgruntled than those in the towns, and there was murmuring against the administration in Paris when the tax collectors came to assess the crops. A good harvest meant increased taxation. There was no incentive to work.
There was a new and subtler element creeping into the discontent. Previously there had been religious quarrels between the Jansenites and the Jesuits; now new enemies to religion had appeared. These were the sceptics.
In her love of art, the Marquise had sought to help writers and philosophers as well as artists and musicians, and thus she had assisted in opening up a new and intellectual field.
Toussaint brought out his book Les Moeurs which was judged to be impious and was consequently burned in public. Diderot wrote his Letter on Blindness for the use of those who see. For this he was sent to Vincennes. Voltaire, fearing persecution for freedom of expression, left Court and went to Berlin.
The writers and philosophers might be penalised, their books might be suppressed, but already certain of their ideas had escaped into circulation and were being considered.
People were beginning to wonder whether there were not many evils in the old régime.
In the cafés men and women would sit talking or listening to some enthusiast who had ideas for destroying the old way of life and substituting a new one.
The fabric of the old régime was not yet torn but it was wearing thin. It needed careful patching, but the King and his ministers did not notice this. For so long had it lasted, that no doubts occurred to them that it would endure for ever.
So the entertainments continued, the endless rounds of pleasure. The King and his mistress must visit the many châteaux in which they delighted; there must be the intimate little supper parties, the plays and entertainment.
Bellevue was on the point of completion, and Madame de Pompadour was excitedly planning a grand banquet and ball which she would give there – the first in this new and magnificent house.
There was a danger at Bellevue for the reason that, situated as it was, so near the capital, many Parisians had walked there to watch its progress; and the construction of Bellevue and its many extravagancies became one of the main topics of conversation in the cafés and on street corners.
‘Have you seen it recently? They say that already six million livres have been spent on that house!’
Six million livres, and in Paris many people could not afford to buy bread at two sous.
The Marquise was at Bellevue supervising the decorations.
She was supremely happy, for ever since the dismissal of Maurepas she had felt great confidence. She loved the King dearly and she knew that the affection he had for her went very deep, so deep that she did not believe he would ever desert her.
If the time came when she was unable to satisfy him she would not reproach him. She would give herself entirely to contributing to his pleasure. She already had a plan. She would find others to supply what she could not – not clever women, but pretty little girls, young girls preferably, with perfect bodies and blank minds.
It was a plan for the future – not to be acted on until the need arose – but she would be watchful and prepared for the moment when it came.
She would be the King’s dearest friend and companion, his confidante, the person at Court in whom he knew he could place absolute trust – never complaining, never demanding, always charming, always ready to sacrifice herself to administer to his pleasure.
Thus she would hold her place; and, if Madame de Pompadour was not known as the First Lady of France, what did it matter as long as her power was complete?
Now for the entertainment.
How proud she was of this delightful château, and how interested he would be. They would sit side by side at this brilliant table decorated with flowers and candlesticks of gold and silver. Between them there would be that intimacy which all others envied and marvelled at.
One of her women came to her as she stood inspecting the table. The woman appeared agitated.
‘What is it?’ asked the Marquise with a smile, for she was rarely anything but charming, even to the most humble.
‘Madame,’ said the woman, her teeth chattering, ‘the people are gathering in Paris. They are talking about Bellevue and the money that was spent on it; and they are comparing it with the price of bread. It is said that they mean trouble.’
‘Trouble? Oh, not tonight. The King will be here. You know how they love the King. The fact that he is here will please them.’
‘Madame, they say the crowd is very ugly.’
‘Oh, these Parisians! So excitable!’
Madame de Pompadour leaned forward and re-arranged a bowl of flowers.
‘Sire,’ said Richelieu, ‘they say the people of Paris are restive tonight.’
‘Why so?’ asked Louis languidly.
‘They have been growing more and more angry as Bellevue was being built.’
‘What concern of theirs is Bellevue?’
‘They think it has some connexion with the price of bread. It is these ideas that have been circulating in the cafés.’
‘We will take no notice of them.’
‘But Sire, it would seem that tonight they plan to take notice of us. They are massing in the squares. I have just heard that their leaders are planning a march to Bellevue,’ Richelieu found it difficult to hide the malicious glee in his voice. ‘Sire, might it not be wise for you to remain at Versailles tonight? Let the Marquise have her entertainment without you.’
Louis looked surprised. ‘The Marquise expects me.’
‘Sire, the people love you, but they do not love . . . Bellevue. Do you not think, in the circumstances, you should remain at Versailles? The people can be wild when they are in a mass.’
‘But you would seem to forget,’ said Louis, ‘that I have promised the Marquise.’
When the King’s car
riage arrived at Bellevue the shouts of the people could be heard in the distance. They sounded angry and ominous. It was true. The mob was on the march and its objective was the château of Bellevue.
The Marquise was suddenly frightened, not for her safety that night – and she knew that the people hated her beyond anyone else in the Kingdom – but because it was the construction of Bellevue which had infuriated them, and Bellevue was her creation. So if anything happened tonight she would be blamed.
Nothing must happen.
Louis had come because he had promised. But there must be no regrets in their relationship. Everything that she brought to him must be desirable in his eyes. She must never plunge him into unpleasantness. Unpleasant! The mob could be dangerous. And who knew, in the horror of an attack on Bellevue, they might forget that Louis was their well-beloved King.
She turned to Louis. ‘I am afraid for your safety,’ she said, ‘so I am going to cancel everything I have arranged. I pray you put no obstacle in my way. If you should suffer the slightest pain tonight through the disaffection of these wild people of Paris, I should never forgive myself.’
Louis pressed her hand. He was grieved to see her so upset. Moreover he was extremely anxious to avoid an unpleasant scene.
‘You must do as you wish, my dear,’ he said.
She gave the order.
‘We are leaving the château,’ she told her guests. ‘We shall take supper in a cottage which is at the end of the gardens. All lights will be extinguished in the château so the mob will realise that no one is there. Now . . . there is no time to lose.’
Thus it was that the grand entertainment at Bellevue was cancelled; there was no play, no fireworks, no ball.
The guests crowded into the little house, where a picnic supper was served instead of the grand banquet, with guests sitting on the floor and crowding every room.
The King was charming as he always was during these more intimate parties and did not seem to mind in the least that the grand affair at the château had been cancelled.
Here again, said the Court, this showed his deep regard for the Marquise. They seemed as happy together in the modest cottage as they did in the state apartments of Versailles.